


There's a cocky furball in my sink

by tokyoangel1000



Series: Neighbours [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, M/M, Neighbors, Pets, Your cat is in my sink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-02 00:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8644150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyoangel1000/pseuds/tokyoangel1000
Summary: Sherlock comes home from a crimescene and finds a cat in his sink.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a prompt I found on tumblr.
> 
> Prompt : I come home and find your cat in my sink after I get home from work

**Monday**

 

Sherlock puffed out a breath of annoyance as he slammed the door to the flat shut. Damn Lestrade and his gang of incompetent monkeys. Why did they bother calling Sherlock in if they were going to trample all over the crime scene before he even got there? Sherlock threw his coat onto the sofa and stomped into the kitchen and let out an actual growl of frustration when he saw his experiment on different types of mould scattered all over the table. Why was the mould all over the table, and not in the dishes he had placed them in?

 

Frustrated and irritated, Sherlock proceeded to collect whatever mould he could fit in his hands and throw it behind him into the sink, only to freeze in place when an angry hiss was heard from behind him. Turning around, Sherlock's eyebrows rose to his hairline when he spotted a cat sitting in the sink, hissing at him. An actual cat, sitting in his sink.

 

For a moment Sherlock stood frozen. He then slowly raised his hand and did a little flapping motion. "Shoo." That should do the trick, shouldn't it? By the looks of it though, the cat was not impressed, and for a moment Sherlock could almost imagine it lifting invisible eyebrows. It's gaze almost seemed to mock him.

 

"That is my sink. Now go away." Still, the cat remained in place, flicking mould off of it's fur with it's tail. Sherlock sighed. "I've already claimed ownership over that sink. It's mine, and so is this flat. Therefore, it is unlogical for you to be here. Now go back to where you came from. Or go down to Mrs. Hudson for all I care. She might appreciate the company now that her latest date has run off with another lover again. I suspect it's the lady from the bakery close to Angelo's. He did have stains of flour on him the last time he was here." Sherlock stopped his rambling once he realized what he was doing. He sighed again and looked back at the cat. He hadn't realized how good it felt to vent to someone. It had been a very long time. "Anyway, the fact remains that you shouldn't be here. Now, go away."

 

The cat gave him a long look before finally hopping out of the sink and onto the kitchen counter, from which it jumped onto the kitchen table and knocked over a couple of stacked petri dishes for a dramatic touch before jumping down on the floor and strolling out of the flat.

 

**Tuesday**

 

The cat returned the following day, trotting in with an aura of something that to Sherlock seemed like pride. What it was so proud of he had no idea, but after a couple of attempts to shoo it away and some scratches to go along with them, he decided to just let the cat do as it pleased. This turned out to be sitting in Sherlock's chair and hissing at him whenever he got too close, knocking things off the desk and ripping a small hole in the rug. By the time the cat decided it had had enough and left the flat Sherlock kicked his feet up onto the sofa in relief. Damn that cocky hairball.

 

**Wednesday**

 

When Sherlock returned from an all-day-long case he found the cat sleeping on the mantle of the fireplace, right next to Billy the skull. He decided to let it be. Not because he was fearing for what would happen to his hands if he did try to wake it of course. Not at all.

 

**Thursday**

 

On Thursday, the cat was waiting for him by the door when he got home from Scotland Yard. Instead of hissing at him, it just meowed and sauntered back into the flat. Sherlock wondered if it was a thank you for the peaceful nap he had allowed it to have the day before, or if it was because it had found one of his scarves to scratch into a messy pile and was in a happy mood. But when he sat on the sofa with the cat purring like an engine in his lap, he decided it didn't matter. Even if the scarf was one of his favourites.

 

**Friday**

 

When the cat came around on Friday morning, Sherlock was armed with a small tin of cat food and one of those silly cat toys one could buy for five pounds in a local pet shop. And as Sherlock watched the cat eat with gusto, he could feel his loneliness slip away bit by bit.

 

**Saturday**

 

After a particularly taxing case, Sherlock fell asleep on the sofa with the cat under his arm. The cat, surprisingly, didn't seem to mind.

 

**Sunday**

 

"Gladstone! Where are you Gladstone? It's time for dinner!"

 

Sherlock awoke to shouts coming from below his flat. Sitting up, he got a greeting in the form of a scratch from the cat who he had managed to throw off his chest. He barely had time to hiss in pain and complain to his furry companion before the cat was off the sofa and by the closed door, scratching on it and meowing as the voice from downstairs was accompanied by footsteps on the stairs.

 

"Gladstone? Are you in there?" A knock came on the door. "Hello? I am terribly sorry to disturb you, but I think my cat might be in your flat. Is anyone in there?"

 

The cat meowed in response to the voice, and Sherlock stood up and walked over to the door. He looked down at the cat that was now attacking his feet, clearly annoyed at being trapped inside. Gladstone? What an unusual name for a cat. As he thought that, one claw dug particularly deep and Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from cursing. With a swing of his arm, he opened the door. "Yes your cat is in here, and I would be most grateful if you could persuade him into releasing my foot."

 

Then Sherlock looked up, and his breath caught in his throat. The man in front of him was on the shorter side, but had wide shoulders and a sturdy body to make up for it. He had sandy blonde hair and glistening blue eyes which seemed to suck Sherlock in immediately. Sherlock's heart stuttered in his chest. What the hell was going on?

 

Sherlock was abruptly returned to reality as the cat released his foot and trotted over to the man who appeared to be his owner, rubbing against his legs and meowing happily. The man chuckled and bent down slightly to pet the cat behind it's ears, before standing back up again to face Sherlock. "I guess he's been coming here for the last couple of days. He would usually never leave the flat, but since we moved here he'd always be gone when I got back from work. I assumed he had gone to the landlady, but when I went to her flat she told me she hadn't seen him once since we moved in." The man smiled, and Sherlock was gone once again. "I'm John Watson by the way. I've temporarily moved into 221C until I can find a better flat. Pleasure to meet you."

"S-Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure." Sherlock could smack himself. As a man who normally had no problem intimidating or charming people at will, he had managed to come off as someone with as much intellect as a can of tuna. So much for first impressions.

 

John gave a hearty chuckle and gave a little smirk, as if he knew exactly what was going on. "Sherlock Holmes huh? Well, I suppose I should thank you for looking after Gladstone these past couple of days. I've been quite busy hunting for a flat whenever I'm not working."

 

"Oh, he's been no trouble at all." Sherlock couldn't believe himself. Since when did he ever not complain if he felt he had reason to? This John Watson really was an unusual man to make him behave like this.

 

"I dare say the scratches on your hands and feet tell a very different story." Sherlock followed John's gaze down to his own hands, quickly putting them behind his back even though he knew John had already got a good look at them. "I really am sorry. Gladstone is usually a very nice cat. I wonder why he has treated you so badly." John gave Gladstone, who was still sitting by his feet, a curious look. Gladstone just yawned.

 

"I might have... unintentionally done something to set him off. Who knows." Sherlock knew very well why Gladstone didn't like him very much. Getting mould thrown at you would piss anyone off, that much Sherlock would admit. But not to John of course. Not yet.

 

"Yeah, who knows. Anyway you should really let me have a look at those scratch marks. We don't want them getting infected or anything." John nodded suggestively towards the sofa inside Sherlock's flat.

 

"I can assure you, I am completely fine. But as a doctor I know you won't let it go, so please do come inside." Inside Sherlock was bubbling with something he had only felt when going on a really good case. Excitement.

 

"How did you know I was a doctor?" John stood baffled by the door, eyes trained on Sherlock.

 

"Why don't I tell you while you take a look at these marks. I might even make you a cuppa if you decide to stay afterwards." Sherlock felt a bit of his confidence return at having taken John off guard. If John decided he wasn't a freak after Sherlock deduced him, things could end quite nicely. Quite nicely indeed.

 

And while Sherlock rambled on about how John had served in Afghanistan and how he knew all that, Gladstone sat a couple of steps behind John's back and stared at Sherlock, a smug look on his face. Sherlock shot him an equally smug look before returning his attention back to John, and made a mental note to buy some premium cat food later. Gladstone may still be a cocky furball, but the owner he had led Sherlock's way certainly wasn't.


End file.
